Apples For Vinegar Page 17

  “Except Jerzy didn’t need to do it,” Frank said. “If Foley wanted Jerzy to be the prime suspect, all he needed to do was use Jerzy’s rifle to kill Ajnabee and complete the frame-up.”

  “He couldn’t anticipate that on the very night he decided to kill Ajnabee,” Helen went on, “Jerzy’s little girl would have a medical emergency giving her father the perfect alibi.”

  “Know what I think?” Frank asked. He left them in suspense as he finished the dregs of champagne in his glass. “I think we shouldn’t make Josh work on his night off. He has enough of this during the day.”

  “Oh no,” Josh protested. “At work, we never sit around making up stories like this.”

  “Ouch,” Helen exclaimed. “Is that what you think of us? Making up wild fantasies?”

  “Not at all. You don’t have much more to go on other than your imagination. It’s a fun diversion, but police have to let the evidence lead them to the culprit. It’s tedious and definitely not fun.” When the other three looked down and didn’t say anything, he announced, “The fish is only going to take ten minutes. Could someone set the table?”

  Delyth said she’d do it; she knew where the dishes were. Helen said she’d help. Frank offered to open more wine. They sat down to eat and, after oohing and aahing about the food, they settled into the pattern of friends sharing a meal. No one brought up the Ajnabee murder.

  She did her best not to show it—and it seemed she succeeded at it—but Delyth resented Josh’s condescension in calling them dabblers in a grownup’s business they knew nothing about, who spun wild tales without proof. His seeming toleration of their sleuthing was really because he didn’t take them seriously enough to care. She, for one, wasn’t going to perform for his entertainment.

  Between the champagne and wine, Delyth had drunk more than usual. Frank stopped with a half glass, and Helen joined him in solidarity. Delyth and Josh split the rest of the bottle, but he had the greater tolerance. Not that she felt drunk, but she was glad she didn’t have to drive home.

  She was still nursing her wounded pride when Helen and Frank announced they had to go. “Thank you so much,” Helen said to both of them. “Are you still up for yoga tomorrow?” she asked Delyth.

  “Of course.”

  “Then we can discuss Ajnabee’s memorial over coffee.”

  “Celebration of life,” Delyth corrected her with a chuckle.

  When they were gone, Josh cleared the dishes and Delyth washed.

  “I think that went well,” Josh said as he set wine glasses next to the sink.

  “Uh huh.”

  He’d started toward the dining room, but stopped and turned. “What? Didn’t you?”

  “I said yes.” She cleaned each of the glasses, carefully rinsing and setting them on a kitchen towel to dry.

  “It was sort of a tepid yes.”

  “Everything was great except your patronizing attitude.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Her hands still in the sink, she turned to face him. “You said we’re wasting our time making up stories while a real detective relies on evidence.”

  “Yes, evidence is what stands up in court, not speculation. And I never said you were wasting your time. A good detective is like a scientist. His conclusions have to be data based, but theory helps to make sense of the individual bits of data. Sometimes your stories can be helpful.”

  “Really?” She turned completely toward him, her hands dripping soapy water on the floor. “So you think Foley could have done it?”

  “He has an alibi.” He pulled off a wad of paper towels and wiped the floor at Delyth feet. “It’s been a month, and I’m no closer to solving who did it,” He threw the paper towels into the trash. “All the suspects have alibis except one, and I don’t think she did it.”

  “Who?”

  “I shouldn’t have said anything.” He started drying a wine glass with a smooth, cotton towel. “You tricked me. Or maybe it was the wine I drank.” He returned the glass to its cabinet home, and grabbed a second glass. “Could be the combination.”

  “I bet it’s Suzanne,” Delyth blurted, ignoring his self-deprecative monologue. “She was home by herself, and Bette saw her standing at the front door right after Ajnabee was killed.”

  “What?” He held the glass in mid-wipe and studied her expression. “How do you know that?”

  She grimaced. “Bette Lee told me.”

  “And you didn’t report it?”

  It was late and the wine was definitely beginning to take over. Delyth didn’t feel up to a discussion of journalistic ethics. “I told her to tell you.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Not much. She was driving home from Shawn Cunningham’s—”

  “What was she doing there?”

  “They’ve been having an affair. She saw Suzanne standing in the doorway looking out. ‘As if she was looking for someone,’ Bette said. That was about it.”

  “I think I need to have another talk with Ms. Lee.”

  So much for his having all the facts, and she and Helen merely fabricating stories. She felt better about the whole evening.

  SIXTEEN

  “So Josh is coming to Ajnabee’s whatever.” Helen said.

  They were lingering over their post-yoga lattes.

  Delyth nodded. “I told him he could drive with us.”

  Helen had invited Delyth for lunch, so she wouldn’t have to drive a half-hour home only to drive back for the two o’clock celebration of Zad’s life.

  “Of course. What changed his mind about going?”

  “He let slip that only one of the suspects didn’t have an alibi,” Delyth said. “I guessed it was Suzanne, because we know she was supposed to be home alone when she discovered Zad’s body. I told him about Bette saying she’d seen Suzanne standing at the front door the night of the murder, so he wants to talk to her about it.”

  “Does he plan on interrogating them at a memorial?” Despite it being called a “celebration of life,” Helen couldn’t forget it had some of the weight of a funeral. It felt improper to disrupt such a solemn occasion, although she did want to ferret out the murderer, and she had no particular affection for the two women.

  “I’m pretty sure not. He just wants to see firsthand who’s there and how they interact. Instead of a tombstone, he’ll be lurking behind me.”

  “Won’t people be suspicious when a cop shows up?”

  “His plan is that we make an obvious show of being a couple by being all lovey-dovey, holding hands and staring into each other’s eyes as if we’d just met and couldn’t bear to be apart.”

  “You are a couple.”

  Delyth didn’t say anything; rather she looked down at her cup, then took a sip. There was the same awkward silence Helen had noticed the night before, when she’d called Josh a keeper. “Trouble in paradise?” she asked.

  Delyth tilted her head back and slouched slightly in her chair. “No. He’s great. It’s just…” She sat up. “I don’t know what it is.”

  Helen knew enough to wait in silence.

  “Okay,” Delyth went on. “If people see us as a couple, you know, if it’s somehow official, they’ll think I’m a damn fool when he leaves me.”

  “Why do you think he’ll leave you?”

  “That’s the thing, I don’t. At least, not as long as there’s no seal of coupledom.”

  “You know that doesn’t make any sense.”

  “I know. But there you are.” She looked around and asked, “You ready to get out of here?” She’d grabbed her yoga bag before Helen had a chance to answer.

  Delyth knew the way to Helen’s house, so they didn’t have to caravan, but traffic was light and they drove one behind the other the whole way. Helen deliberated Delyth’s fears about love or, more accurately, about the possibility of love lasting. It didn’t take a professional to realize the problem wasn’t with Josh but with Delyth’s father. Thirteen or fourteen is a critical stage for a girl to lose a
parent. Worse, Helen suspected, when the parent the father and he chooses to leave. As a child, Delyth must have felt it was something she’d done that drove him away. Did she fear she’d only do it again with Josh? All Helen could do was hope Delyth didn’t ruin a good thing. With that thought, she turned into her driveway. Delyth pulled in right behind her.

  Frank was sitting on a log in front of the opened garage door contemplating the root ball from the Duddas’ apple tree. He’d managed to reduce the size and, borrowing a small tractor from a neighbor, had moved it inside. The smell of damp earth clung to it despite repeated cleanings. He’d removed the tangle of hair roots and cut away a few of the lateral roots, revealing an architectural shape without destroying its organic essence. As he said, “It’s a lot of work making nature look natural.” Sheets of paper, tacked here and there on the root ends, fluttered in the breeze. Helen knew, because he’d been doing it for the past two days, that the sheets were his drawings of the Duddas. He was trying to decide on the proper positioning of the individual sculptures.

  Delyth followed Helen to stand beside him. “Wow, that’s impressive,” she said.

  “It’s going to be the Bailey’s family tree,” he explained, although Helen had already told Delyth about the project. “I’ve decided to arrange the figures chronologically, but I can’t decide if the oldest should be facing out or the newest.” He turned toward Delyth. “If the tree was standing upright, it’d be easy. You’d put the great, great grandparents at the bottom and Karen and Kyla at the top. But I always envisioned it as emphasizing the roots rather than the tree. So If I keep the ends of the roots facing the viewer, do I put the grandparents the closest to you or Karen?”

  “I guess it depends if you see this as the end of the line for the apple farm or not,” Helen suggested.

  “If Emily Foley had a say in it, it would definitely be the end,” Delyth said.

  “That’s right,” Helen said. “You met her this week. What was she like?”

  “A Stepford wife without the smile.”

  Frank laughed. “As far as I recall, the smile was the creepiest part of that movie.”

  “If you ever meet Emily, you might change your mind.”

  Helen knew Frank was including them in his decision process to be polite; he’d do it on his own in his own good time. “I thought Delyth and I could take quick showers before lunch,” she told him. “I bought a quiche and prewashed salad so it won’t take any time to pull together. It should be ready in a half hour.”

  As the women walked toward the house, Delyth said, “I can’t imagine how he’s going to do it. I mean, carve recognizable faces into that tangle of roots?”

  “I know. But, time and again, he’s surprised me.”

  ◆◆◆

  Josh arrived early. Helen asked if he’d chosen to wear black slacks and black mock-turtleneck pullover because it was a memorial or in hopes of disappearing. “You look like a stagehand who moves the furniture around with the lights down but the curtain open.”

  He laughed. “Both, I guess.”

  Delyth objected when Josh offered to drive. “I’m bringing you. Remember?”

  “You should sit in front,” Helen told Josh. “Your legs are longer.”

  He’d already climbed into the back seat before she could object a second time. “It’s okay,” he said. “But could you move your seat up a little?”

  The drive was pleasant. Helen paid partial attention to Delyth and Josh’s conversation, but mostly stared out the window. April was Helen’s favorite time of the year, when the hills burst into frenzied growth racing to beat the dry season. They passed lambs frolicking among their staid mothers, leading Helen to consider the juxtaposition of so much young life when they were heading to a memorial. It was more a feeling than a thought, a feeling that led her to regret how much she enjoyed eating lamb.

  Less than a dozen cars were parked in front of Ajnabee’s place when they arrived. As they got out, Josh grabbed Delyth’s hand and pulled her close. “Remember, you’re my excuse for being here.”

  Delyth tensed for a moment then relaxed, edging closer to him. The front door was open wide, inviting people to come in unannounced.

  Helen had speculated what the home of a marijuana grower would look like, vacillating between visions of an arriviste’s vulgar extravagance to the slovenly hovel of someone too stoned to care about his surroundings, but none of her conjectures came close to the reality. Large cushions dyed colors from a Middle Eastern spice bazaar—cayenne, cinnamon, saffron, turmeric—comprised the totality of seating options. Brilliant lengths of crêpe georgette with broad borders of gold embroidery like unwound saris hung in the windows, filtering the sunlight amethyst and sapphire. A giant, gold statue of dancing Shiva surrounded by a circle of flames stood floor-to-ceiling against one wall. To Helen’s eye, the room was a parody of India. The one thing Helen had guessed right was the pervasive, pungent smell of marijuana. And standing in the middle of it was Suzanne talking to two women, possibly co-workers just getting off their shift and still in the long dresses that seemed the Haven’s uniform.

  As they walked into the room, Josh leaned toward Delyth and whispered something. Delyth laughed.

  Suzanne turned to see who had arrived. “Delyth, I’m so glad you could make it.” She seemed startled when Josh pulled his face from Delyth’s shoulder, but caught herself. “Detective, I didn’t know you’d be here.”

  “We couldn’t stand being apart for a whole afternoon.” Josh veritably cooed.

  He’s overplaying his role, Helen thought, but Suzanne seemed to accept his explanation. Ignoring him, she said to Delyth, “I asked people to share their memories of Zad. The only impression of him people have gotten is about the weed, but he was more than that. I thought maybe you could print some of the good things people say.”

  “Most of my writing is pretty routine. Have you thought about submitting an obituary?”

  “No one reads those except people with one foot in the grave themselves. I thought maybe something in the next article about his murder. Something to humanize him rather than people assuming he got what he deserved.”

  “I understand. I can give you the name of the person in charge of crime reporting. Perhaps if you contact her.”

  As they were talking, Helen noticed Shawn Cunningham skirting around the room, talking to people and pointing toward them, then the people he’d talked with edging out to the deck. Marijuana may be legal now, but old habits or, perhaps, judicious precaution, prevailed.

  “Do you think she’d help?” Suzanne asked.

  Delyth winced. “I don’t know, but she’s your best bet.”

  Suzanne looked beyond them. “Oh, look who’s here. There’re drinks in the kitchen, so help yourselves. I really should go greet…” Helen didn’t hear who Suzanne was going to greet in her rush to get away.

  When she was gone, Helen said, “It doesn’t look like we’re the most popular guests at the party.” She nodded toward a group staring at them from the kitchen doorway.

  “It’s probably just me,” Josh said. “I’d interviewed Cunningham about Ajnabee. He’s probably told everyone who I am.”

  “Do you think you should be here?” Delyth asked. “I mean, someone could take a photo and tag you on Facebook. ‘Local detective at pot party.’ ”

  “It’s legal now, you know.”

  “Not according to federal law.”

  He snaked an arm around Delyth’s waist. “I’d blame you for being a bad influence and dragging me here.” He leaned in and started nibbling her neck.

  She raised her shoulders, tucked her chin into her neck and made a feeble attempt to pull away. “You know I hate that.”

  He gave one last kiss then let her free.

  The arrivals who Suzanne had gone off to greet—a woman and man—edged up to where Helen, Delyth and Josh were standing. Apparently Shawn hadn’t had a chance to warn them off.

  “Hey,” the man said.

  Josh smile
d and returned the “hey."

  The man, barely older than a boy, wore skinny jeans with designer holes expensively placed and a black t-shirt, his painfully thin arms poking through the sleeves. The woman had healthier heft to her, although Helen judged her midriff top a poor choice. The man lit a hand-rolled cigarette, took a deep drag then passed it to the woman, who took a more modest puff. Trying to talk and hold her breath at the same time, she held the cigarette out to Helen. “Want some?”

  Marijuana was prevalent when Helen was in college, and she’d smoked some in those days, although cautiously, infrequently and mainly at parties. She stopped when she got pregnant, and never did it again. It wasn’t a moral judgment, she’d tell Frank’s artist friends; she just didn’t like the high. “No, thank you,” she told the young woman.

  Delyth took the joint, held it a few moments without putting it to her lips, then passed it back to the man.

  “How do you know Zad?” the woman asked.

  “Suzanne invited us,” Delyth told her.

  The man exhaled a cloud of smoke. “That was some tough shit, him getting offed in his own casa.”

  “Do you know where it happened?” the woman asked the three of them.

  “No,” Josh said in an innocent voice. “But maybe Suzanne will give a tour later.”

  “You think?” the woman asked.

  “I’m kind of thirsty,” Delyth said in a choked voice, although Helen suspected it was from stifling a laugh rather than the need for something to drink.

  Helen glanced at the kitchen where five people crowded the doorway. “Looks like we’ll have to run a gauntlet.”

  “They’re more afraid of us than we are of them,” Josh said and led the way.

  The people in the doorway smiled as they approached.

  “How ya’ doing?” Josh asked.

  A man, probably in his late fifties with tattoos completely covering both arms, nodded. “Beautiful day.”

  “Is this where they’re hiding the drinks?” Josh asked.

  A woman, wearing what looked like one of the drapes from the other room, pointed toward a cooler. “Wine, beer and water,” she said.